


What I Did On My Summer Vacation, By Andrew Wells

by Stoney



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Humor, Tall Tales
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-26
Updated: 2012-01-26
Packaged: 2017-10-30 04:20:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/327660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stoney/pseuds/Stoney
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While in Mehico - on the lam from Evil!Willow - Andrew regales Jonathan with ribald tales of his adventures abroad the summer after graduation to prove that Timothy Dalton was the best James Bond.  <b>Warning: burros.</b> (Written for the Scottish Ficathon, Jan, 2003)</p>
            </blockquote>





	What I Did On My Summer Vacation, By Andrew Wells

**Author's Note:**

  * For [entrenous88 (EntreNous)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EntreNous/gifts).



~*~*~*~*~

"Once Upon a Time in Mexico, Where Johnny Depp Still Has Eyes and is Not a Part of This Tale-"

"Okay, numb-nuts. Enough with the Depp."

Andrew gasped in horror, hand clutched into an ineffectual fist at his collarbone. "There is NO SUCH THING as enough Depp, Short Round. Neither the public, nor Tim Burton, will ever be sated."

Jonathan covered the mouth of the bottle with his thumb where Andrew couldn't see, took a pretend swig of tequila - he has a sensitive throat, okay? - barked out an "ahhhh," and pointed with a finger, his hand still holding the bottle because it made him look like a real _hombre_ when he did that. "You know, the day you can tell a story without getting off track into some weird fantasy life from the movies is the day- "

He took another pretend swig, remembering to make his eyes half-lidded. It was his sixth pretend swig.

"Ahhh. The day you get a real set of balls. And not the kind you steal from a demon dimension."

"Realm."

"What?"

Long suffering sigh.

"It was a REALM, not a fully realized dimension, and you call yourself a Dungeon Master?" Andrew shook his head ruefully. "Oh, Youngling, sit right back and you'll hear a tale, a tale of a fateful trip that started from LAX and ended up in the darkest places of a man's soul - a small pub in Edinburgh, Scotland, where I stared down Sean Connery."

"Pffft. You did not." Jonathan settled in to the burro's side - after a few days you got used to the smell - and decided to quit arguing. After all, there weren't many things to do to pass the time in Punta Arriba, a town just south of the Arizona border in the heart of Mehico. And they had already learned the hard way that burro tipping was a joke the locals played on _gringos_ \- they bit HARD.

Andrew stood, adjusted his _serape_ , and stared into the night sky. He wished he was able to grow facial hair - that would have been a good moment to twirl a mustache.

"It was the summer after I graduated Sunnydale. My mom wanted to take me back to the Motherland. Her family, the MacLeods, still lived in a quaint little village in the Highlands. Apparently there was to be a great "Gathering." I wanted to bring my sword - there could have been Immortals there, and as you know: there can be only One. My mother informed me that it was not _that_ kind of gathering. I brought my comic books instead...."

~Flashback~

 _It had been a rough night - stormy - and a difficult flight, doomed from the moment the plane took off and the stewardess took away my Game Boy. Something about interfering with the controls or something. Then came the movie: _Mr. Deeds_. And there I was, without a distraction. I was saving the in-flight magazine for emergencies-_

 

"Get on with the trip, moron. I don't care about your flight. Wait - was this before they stopped serving meals? Because I didn't mind airplane food so much. Everything was small, and - . Never mind. Go on."

Andrew began again.

~Flashback~

 _We had arrived in Scotland, birthplace of plaid and my mother. I couldn't understand a word her family said, so I decided to explore the quaint little village full of history and also shortbread. I happened upon a tiny little comic book shop - perhaps I would find something new. Also, up front was a really cool Manga display - always a good sign._

_They had a bunch of DVDs - regional, yes, but I knew how to get around that. And there I saw it - boldly placed near the cash register for all to see. An abomination before men..._

Jonathan interrupted with, "A "Wonder Twins" comic book?"

"No, and hey! I liked Gleek." Andrew looked off into the desert; his eyes taking on the look of a man haunted.

"They had a 'Best of Bond' display and the Connery movies were in front; the Dalton oeuvre was nowhere to be seen."

Jonathan rolled his eyes, pushed the donkey's head away from his shirt buttons, but didn't say anything. After all, they were hundreds of miles from their "Red Dwarf" DVDs and any kind of "Dr. Who" convention. Being a Mexican was hard - all they had were memories of their former life, now.

~Flashback~

~for real, this time~

Andrew stood in front of the display, toe tapping a pissy little staccato until the shop keeper realized he had an angry customer and offered his services. He had forgotten he was in Scotland and that they didn't care about customer service. Andrew heaved a sigh. And still the shop keeper flipped through his magazine, ignoring him. So Andrew cleared his throat, his toe tapping so vigorous that he was practically bouncing up and down, and then cleared his throat again.

"A hot toddy'll do you right, laddie."

"Um, I don't know what that is, and also.. you have inaccurately portrayed the greatest spy who ever... spied."

The shop keeper closed his magazine with a snap and peered over his glasses at the American. "Is that right? Did one of those buggering Irish lads put Brosnan up there, then?"

"No, and to think that Remington Steele could- NO. Sir, I'm going to say this once-"

The shop keeper stood and maybe that was a raised platform he was on? No, it wasn't. He was moving around the counter. Andrew had thought Europeans were short - everyone said so. Everyone was a liar, apparently.

"Um, I don't understand how you can have a Best Of Bond display and have NO TIMOTHY DALTON?" He felt lightheaded. Also, he was afraid he might throw up - _Lord_ , but that was a tall man.

The shop keeper clapped him on the shoulder. "Ahaha! That's a good one. That poncy bastard cannae find his arse with both hands."

Andrew wanted to point angrily in the shop keeper's face, but his whole arm was numb from where the large man had clapped his shoulder. He remembered he had two arms, and pointed with his left hand, instead.

"Timothy Dalton was the greatest Bond in the entire franchise, and Connery wishes he was as cool and suave as the REAL BOND."

~*~*~

Jonathan interrupted at this point. "Which was Roger Moore! _Moonraker_ was a work of ART!"

"I'm telling this story, Darby O' _Shrill_ , so you can pipe down!"

Joanthon impersonated Mike Myers saying "piper doon" and they both laughed. Andrew wished someone would have strummed a guitar and shaken a maraca at that point to get back into the story. At which point he remembered he was telling a tale of Scotland, and the maracas with its rattlesnake sound would be wholly inappropriate. A bagpipe, then. And so he imagined a lone, keening tone, then picked up the tale.

~*~*~

The shop keeper wasn't sure if the skinny idiot standing in front of him was pulling his leg, or if there was about to be some non-believer blood splattered on the sidewalk.

"What did you say?"

"I said: Timothy Dalton was the best Bond, was the most handsome, and brought the franchise back to its literary roots!"

"I think you'll be taking your Limey-loving arse out of my shop, noo. You're either starkers, or you have a death wish."

"I am fully dressed, which is besides the point."

"Perhaps you'd like to say that to Sir Connery's face?"

Andrew folded his arms, adopted a cool and haughty demeanor and replied, "If he was here, I would."

"Weel then, Laddie. Today'sh your lucky day, it sheemsh."

Sir Sean Connery stepped out of a small hallway, wiped his hands on the front of his kilt, adjusted his sporran, and stood toe to toe with Andrew. "Whatsh thish I hear about Dalton? That shlimey upshtart couldn't originate a role if hish life depended on it."

"Mr. Connery?"

Gasps arose from the handful of patrons in the shop. The shop keeper made a fist, then pointed a finger sharply at Andrew's face. "That's SIR Connery to you, you minging Yank."

Andrew made a tiny, fussy bow at the man with his eyes closed. "Touchè. Although I'm from California, not New England, but that is no matter. SIR Connery, sir? With all due respect, you were too focused on the ladies and not enough on the spying. Seeing as the movies were about a SPY..." 

Connery laughed, and pointed a thumb at the boy while looking at the store owner. "Get a load of thish kid. Shon, I think you've misshed the whole point of Jamesh Bond - it'sh all about the tail. Pushy Galore, Mish Moneypenny, Kisshy Shuzuki... The moviesh are about getting a shweet car to get shweeter ladies. In bed." Connery flashed his leg-spreading grin.

The shop keeper broke in, "Maybe he's ne'er had a bit of arse. Is that it boy? Only been greased yourself, is it?"

"I don't speak Scottish, so I don't know what you mean by that, but you," he turned back to Connery, "have just explained why Dalton was a better 007. He was handsome, dashing, and he looks like Spike, but with dark hair, and he was grittier and more troubled and more human and captured Fleming's dream!"

Sir Sean Connery nodded to the shop keeper, took Andrew forcibly by the elbow and steered him down the street to a corner pub. The windows were so caked with grime, the light from outside barely filtered through. Gas torches on the walls provided a weak light inside. Sawdust was on the floor. A few old men, who were playing chess in the corner with their hounds snuffling in the dust and debris on the floor, gave a cheery shout at the sight of their nation's hero.

"Ladsh. Thish round'sh on me." He nodded to the bartender. "Give my new friend here a glash of your finesht shctoch. He and I are going to have a talk about why Dalton washn't the besht Bond."

"You tell him, Sean!"

"That bastard said what, noo?"

"Fellash, it'sh alright. What'sh your name, shon?"

"Andrew. Andrew Wells." Andrew had to work hard to not say "Wellsh."

"Weel Andrew, we're going to have a drink, and we're going to have a dishcusshion about the importansh of ladiesh. Now, if you prefer the boysh, there'sh nothing wrong with that."

Andrew felt uneasy. Like that time when Warren had sent him with the Trio's demands to Spike's lair and he had found the vampire naked, doing chin-ups in his crypt. Andrew had slunk out unseen and took several laps around the cemetery before heading back to the guys. Timothy Dalton looked a lot like Spike. They both had those cheekbones, the chin dimple, the tight, compact bodies... Timothy Dalton was the BEST. Someone was talking to him.

"...and sho when a boy and a girl have feelingsh for each other, they get out toysh to play with. Like feather boash and hand-cuffsh. It'sh what Mother Nature intended."

"Um, okay. I don't... Uh."

Andrew took a small sip of his scotch and immediately started coughing. Connery pounded on his back and laughed. "Thatsh it, shon. Mother'sh milk. Drink up. It'll put hair on your chesht."

Andrew flashed to an alabaster body doing chin ups. He took a big swallow of his drink and almost passed out from the burning. He tried to speak, but his voice wouldn't work properly after the large slug of alcohol. Obviously the scotch sold in Scotland was way stronger than what was sold in America. Which was why it burned so much. Not because Andrew had never had it before. Because he had. At a cousin's wedding, but not the cousin that Jonathan knew, a different cousin. Who lived in Canada.

"And it'sh okay to want to touch their boobiesh. They like it. Well, they like it when I do it. Sho are you? Into girlsh?"

"G-girls? Yeah. Scully, Xena, Deanna Troi... They're hot."

"Shcully? Who the hell namesh their shweet little girl Shcully? What the hell ish wrong with Maryann or Lushy?"

"I'm partial to Clara, myself."

"Ewan McGregor, you magnifishent bashtard! How are you?"

~*~*~

Jonathan interrupted at this point.

"Okay, now I _know_ you are making this up. No way did you meet Obi-Wan."

"I am telling this story, Shortathan, and you- . I am telling this story! And this was Jar-Jar Binks era-Obi-Wan, so then it was all about Qui-Gon being the cool one."

"Fine, but I'm telling my story about giving Jodie Foster directions to a coffee house and her falling in love with me, next."

Andrew rolled his eyes. "Whatever."

" _Quid pro quo_ , Andrew."

Andrew smiled and nodded his approval. "Nice one. Now, can I get back to my story? THANK YOU."

~*~*~

 

"I'm partial to Clara, myself."

"Ewan, McGre-"

 

~*~*~

Jonathan broke in, "You did that part already." 

"Oh. Right."

~*~*~

 

Ewan flashed his million dollar grin. "Fancy meeting you here, Connery! In all the pubs in all of Scotland, its two greatest stars happened upon the same one at the same time."

Andrew looked up and deadpanned, "Yes. Isn't that odd, yet fortuitous? Mr. McGregor? Pleasure meeting you. I'm Andrew Wells. Your impression of Alec Guinness is truly inspired."

Ewan crooked a thumb at the boy and asked Connery, "What's all this, then?"

"Shays Dolton wash the better Bond. I think he'sh into boysh. Shaysh there wash too much focush on girlsh and carsh in my moviesh."

"Ach, you're talking crazy. Andrew, is it? There's no finer Bond than Sir Sean, here. We drinking scotch, then? Brilliant."

Ewan climbed onto a bar stool next to Andrew and lit a smoke. Andrew thought about taking up the habit. All the cool guys smoked. McGregor, Dalton, Spike... But if he was going to continue to be a Super Villain, he'd need full lung capacity. Hmm. Better not, then.

Andrew spoke up. "Okay, so back home I have a friend who thinks Roger Moore was the better Bond, and clearly he is insane. Short men can't be trusted. Also, he always hogs the good controller when we play Warcraft, and I know he's lying when he says there aren't any Red Vines left."

Ewan blinked owlishly. "Right. Say, would you fancy a sneak peek at the next Star Wars script?"

 

~*~*~

"Okay, no way. NO WAY did you see a script for SW3. No. Way. George prints that on secret paper that dissolves after contact, and you would have told me spoilers, dingus. Now get back to the real story."

Andrew huffed a minute, eyes to the ground. "Okay, fine. FINE. I asked him about _Moulin Rouge_ , are you happy now? Now listen up! And stop interrupting. You're screwing up the narrative flow."

~*~*~

 

"Well, Andrew, I know you didn't ask, because I can clearly see that you would prefer to talk about Star Wars and the sort of breakfast that fuels the genius of George Lucas, but I was able to learn the dances in _Moulin Rouge_ within a matter of weeks. And I don't think there's anything wrong with little boys who took formal dancing so their aunties would have a dance partner at family gatherings. In fact, I think it's quite manly."

"Thank you, Mr. McGregor. I am quite manly, and if I may, can certainly cut a rug with the foxtrot. But let's get back to that breakfast of champions you mentioned for Mr. Lucas..."

"Now shee here, ladsh. I don't mind shitting around in a pub, dishcusshing how to make movesh on the ladiesh so you can get them to show you their boobiesh, but I don't have all day to talk about danshing and food. I've got a caber tossh to get to."

Andrew was disappointed. He still hadn't been able to get Sir Connery to admit that Spike- er, Timothy Dalton was the coolest Bond ever. And he would. Oh, yes. He would.

"Sir Sean? Is this a private caber toss, or can anyone join in?"

~*~*~

Jonathon broke in, shifting against the burro to get more comfortable, meaning, further away from the biting end, "What's a caber toss?"

Andrew slumped his shoulders forward and smirked, "They're like, huge tree trunks with all the branches and sticks wacked off. You grab one end and throw it."

"Sounds like a good way to get splinters, to me."

"That's just what I said!"

~*~*~

Andrew eyed the stack of cabers the men were standing around. "Looks like a good way to get splinters, to me."

Sir Connery laughed and clapped Andrew hard on the shoulder. Andrew staggered forward, wincing, and mouthed, "Ow! Ow!" when no one was looking.

Sean and Ewan wandered over to the kilted men - yes, they dress like that ALL THE TIME. All of them. Every man in Scotland wears a kilt every day. And Andrew still didn't get why everyone laughed when he asked what they wore under them, he just laughed along with them because he hated not being in on a joke. And apparently he kept saying the same joke over and over again. But that was not the point.

The point was that a bunch of strong men who didn't look like Willie the Groundskeeper - not a lot of redheads in Scotland, evidently - were standing about a bunch of tree trunks. And picking them up. And running and yelling and throwing them. Apparently this wasn't a joke like the whole "what's under your kilt" thing. Which Andrew still didn't ge-

Oh.

OH.

~*~*~

"Did you know they don't wear anything under their kilts?"

Jonathan started choking on his pretend swig of tequila. Interesting that neither of the two acknowledged that the level of alcohol never dropped in their tequila bottle, and it was the only bottle of alcohol they had been "drinking" for three days now.

"H-how did you know _that?_ "

Andrew waved his hand slowly in front of Jonathan's face, "You do not need to know that information at this time."

"You are not a Jedi Master, Andrew, for the millionth time."

"I could be. I learned all of the Master's tricks. Ewan is really cool. He said that singing and dancing are manly and-"

"Enough with the Broadway Baby routine. I told you I didn't care that you liked Cats, okay? I mean, it's kind of fun? To imagine a bunch of cats the size of people? And they-"

Andrew looked at Jonathan like he had grown another head. "Um, liking Obi-Wan when he sings about his heart breaking and knowing that he will become one of the greatest Jedi masters the universe has ever known is not the same as you putting on your mother's wig and singing along with your _Grease_ soundtrack."

Jonathan carefully set the tequila bottle down in the crook of the burro's knee - do they have knees? The leg-bendy part, at any rate - and launched himself at Andrew, thumbs carefully tucked inside his fists so he wouldn't accidentally catch it and bend it backwards too far, because that really hurt. He slapped his fists in Andrew's direction with a gasping, "uhn, uhn" noise while Andrew threw his arms up to block his face and let out a high, keening noise, kicking his foot somewhere in the direction of the whirling dervish of dark-haired elfin malice, a.k.a, Jonathan.

"You used to sing that with me! You used to _beg_ to play Rizzo! You swore you'd never-"

"Kinickie! I wanted to be Kinickie! And you're missing the best part! SPICE! Jonathan, they have SPICE!"

Jonathan leaned back and whispered reverentially, "The worms are spice. The spice IS the worm." His voice changed to that of wistfullness, "Kyle MacLachlan looked really cool in the skin suit. Muab'Dib. Now, what the aitch? They have spice?"

Andrew nodded, adjusted his _serape_ , and looked off into the Mehican night sky.

"They call it... Haggis."

~*~*~

Andrew stood with his arms crossed tightly in front of his chest, leg bouncing and a look of uncertainty on his face. "What if I, you know, throw it and hit someone in the eye? It's all fun and games until someone throws a caber in someone else's... eye."

Ewan laughed, grabbed one end of his caber, and hoisted it to his shoulder with ease. But he was a Jedi, so sure it was easy for _him_. He was probably using a mind trick to float it and-

Ewan was speaking. "You haven't eaten anything, have you? Go have a bit of a nosh, then you'll be ready." Ewan gave a few running steps while the kilted men - some with jaunty caps and white feathers on their heads, there may have even been a few bagpipers in the mix, Andrew couldn't be sure because he was focused on Ewan's throw - began to yell. They were getting louder and louder as Ewan sped up, then their voices rose in a crescendo as the large trunk was tossed, the noise ending with a loud, "whoa!" as the caber crashed and thumped to the ground.

Andrew nodded briskly a few times, marched back to the table that someone had thoughtfully brought out to the field, and really, the tablecloth was a lovely touch, and ooh! Little finger sandwiches! Andrew hoped they didn't have nuts in them - he was allergic to them and broke out in hives. And sometimes if the crusts weren't cut off, he sometimes choked. Dried bread was hard on his delicate system, which was why his mom always cut the crusts off and there was something that looked like a donkey's peni-

"Oh, man."

Sir Connery stepped up behind him and clapped him hard on the shoulder again. Andrew was beginning to think about suing him for damages.

"That'sh haggish, laddie. Few bites of that in your wame, and you'll finally feel like a man. 'Bout time you had that feeling, eh, shon?"

Andrew gave a weak laugh and a small conciliatory smile, then had a flash of intuition. "Sir? I'll eat that on one condition."

"What'sh that, shon?"

"You admit that Timothy Dalton was the closest to Ian Flemming's ideal of a superspy, and you were only about the girls and gadgets, and I'll eat your... haggis."

Sean looked at the boy while chewing the inside of his cheek. "You want me to shay that I got the ladiesh and the gear. That I alwaysh got the ladiesh, and Dalton only did the shpying, ish that it?"

Andrew heaved a sigh of relief. "Yes. That is _exactly_ what I want you to admit."

"Shon, lishten. I appreciate that you are a young tyke, and you grew up after the age of Free Love. But believe me, my Bond is the besht. The mosht remembered. There have been pollsh taken, and the fellash love me, not to mention all the ladiesh." Sean flashed his sparkling grin and ruffled Andrew's hair. "But if all you need to hear is that Dalton did all the work, and I got all the pushy, then fine. There you go. Now eat the damned haggish."

A few of the kilted men - one of them had a broadsword, Andrew was sure of it - had finished their plates of haggis. Their eyes glowed with blue intensity.

"Spice..."

Andrew took a deep breath, and ate a bite. He quickly looked around for something to wash the taste down with. It was like that time his Nana had pulled out a grey piece of mystery meat from the freezer and tried to tell him and his cousin that the ice crystals protected the meat from spoiling, then boiled it and told them to just put a lot of ketchup on it, because she was not going to eat Captain Crunch cereal for dinner, and she was on a budget anyway, and would he just eat it and then call his mother to come get him.

One of the Scotsmen - a Laird? He was wearing a linen blouse with ruffles, which accentuated the strong muscles in his chest somehow - handed him a tankard and told him to drink, then _another_ Scotsman - okay, this one kind of looked like Robert Duval in _Braveheart_ with a wild beard and he had an arrow broken off and stuck in his chest and he wasn't even _flinching_ -

~*~*~

"What was in the glass, Andrew?" Jonathan's face shifted from irritation to amusement. "You didn't drink it, did you?"

"Shut up, Wee Willy Wonka and the Interrupting Factory. I'm trying to give my tale some atmosphere."

"Pffft. Okay, Rachel."

~*~*~

So the _second_ guy clapped Andrew on his back, which forced the drink down his throat, thank you very much, and it burned like acid. And tasted like an old shoe soaked in dirty water that skunks had bathed in.

"The finest ale in Scotland!"

So _that's_ what beer tasted like.

Andrew, filled with haggis (Spice) and ale (skunk juice), was finally ready to toss the caber. Was finally fortified enough to be able to do it. Oh, god, he didn't want to do it.

"Help me Obi-Wan Kenobi. You're my only hope..." he whispered. 

And there he was. Obi-Wan guiding Andrew's hands to the caber, Obi-Wan explaining quietly how to use his legs and back, or... just try and hold it steady then shift forward so it wouldn't fall on Andrew's feet. Obi-Wan with his soothing Jedi voice and strong Jedi hands, teeming with midi-chlorians-

Andrew took a calming breath, imagined he was on Degoba, pictured Jonathan as Artoo chirping encouragingly, smiled, nodded, and lifted. Nothing moved. Imagined doing a handstand, then quickly got sick to his stomach, because being upside down bothered his inner-ear condition, which kept him from playing sports and he had NOTES, thank you, excusing him from gym, then found his inner strength from the haggis (Spice), and lifted the end again. And again, nothing moved.

"Okay, then, um, I tried and all, so thanks but-"

"There is no try. Do or do not."

"Tchuh. You said that backwards, Ewan. It goes, 'Do or do n-' "

"Andrew, pick up the bloody thing and let's be done with it, aye? Oh, um, 'Size matters not.' That help you any?"

Andrew smiled and nodded. "It does. Truly you are a Jedi Knight." He looked at the trunk he was attempting to pick up, eyes slitted with fierce concentration, and lifted the end. Three men rushed forward and helped lift the heavy pole onto his shoulder. Andrew coughed, the wind knocked out of him briefly, then took several steps forward, pushed with his shoulder and blacked out.

When he woke up, he was a little disappointed that he wasn't in a water chamber with a re-breather, but then he realized that he would then be expected to kiss his sister and that was gross. What he did wake up to was a bunch of men looking down at him with distast-, um, with concern. Sir Sean Connery stepped forward, pulled him up to standing, and spoke.

"That was the biggesht peash of girly throwing I've ever sheen."

~*~*~

"Um, girls are really strong in Scotland, so that was a compliment."

Jonathan leaned back against the burro, closed his eyes and smiled. "Yeah. Sure it is."

"Whatever. You don't even know. You've never been further than twelve blocks from your house."

Jonathan tapped the side of his head, "I've been further up here. And they totally called you a girl."

"They did not! And besides, you didn't meet a Jedi and a James Bond. And let's not forget that he admitted to being only about the girls and ess ee ex and that Timothy Dalton was the greatest Bond that ever was."

"Because he's a liar. And an idiot."

"Did you just call Connery an-"

"ROGER MOORE WAS THE GREATEST BOND EVER."

"Yeah, in stupid crazy land, maybe. A land filled with SHORT, _dumb_ , weenie-"

"Timothy Dalton is a chin-dimpled FREAK!"

A loud _eeeeHAAAAW_ and a stiff bite on the thigh from the burrow shut them both up quickly. Evidently it was time to get some sleep.

"Scoot over. You're hogging all the burro."

Jonathan scooted towards the back end - it may smell more, but he would be further from the teeth - and made room for Andrew. They settled in, heads against the burro's sides, and drifted off towards sleep.

"Andrew?"

"Yeah, Jonathan?"

"Is beer really skunky?"

Andrew sighed the sigh of the hard-lived. "Yes, Little One. It is the very essence of skunk."

Later, when Jonathan heard the nasal _wheen_ that indicated Andrew was asleep, he stuck his pinkie in the tequila bottle and tasted it. A few convulsions later, he corked the bottle, made a face, and sighed. Being a Mehican was going to be hard.


End file.
